


only if for a night.

by ununpentium



Series: Ceremonials [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coma, Hospital, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-02
Updated: 2011-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:18:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ununpentium/pseuds/ununpentium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock, I’m only asking one thing of you now. Just one thing, so concentrate,” John clutched Sherlock’s hand, stroking it lightly, “just wake up for one night? If you have to go, if you have to… I want to say goodbye, alright? I want to be able to say goodbye.” John’s voice cracked and his shoulders shook as he sobbed quietly to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	only if for a night.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was influenced by "Only if for a night" by Florence and the Machine. I listened to it whilst writing this and used the lyrics for inspiration. Please listen to it if you can- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MkJK2KVFsi0
> 
> I've posted the lyrics at the end.
> 
> My intention is to write a fic based on every song from Ceremonials.

John’s world had shrunk from the hustle and bustle of London; mad rooftop chases with Sherlock, leaping and swirling in the dead of the night to the symphony of beeps and noises of the intensive care ward. Instead of using the sunlight and the type of noise outside of the window to work out what time of day it was, John knew that the nurses changed shift every eight hours and so he used this like a clock. It seemed like an eternity had passed since the pool, since Moriarty. Sherlock didn’t run, and now here he was lying like a fallen angel; his dark curls contrasting against the white sheets. A ventilator was breathing for him, his chest rising and falling in rhythmic bursts. For the first two days John would not tear his eyes away from the monitors, frantically tracking the changes and clinging on to the fact that Sherlock was still alive, if not awake.

John escaped from the pool with a fractured collarbone and minor cuts and grazes. Sherlock had taken the worst of the explosion when he used his body to shield John. Sherlock was unconscious by the time he hit the water- John broke his collarbone as he twisted mid-air to try and do something, _anything_ to help Sherlock and hit the edge of the pool. It was all a bit of a blur after that. John remembers snatches of colour, sound, the weight of the water. He remembers the agony of trying to lift Sherlock out of the pool. He was a dead weight. He remembers his attempts at CPR; shaking hands and not enough breath.

It has been six days. Sherlock still has not woken up. John knows that after a week in a coma the chances of waking up drop significantly. There already is a chance of brain damage, the doctors won’t know how bad it is until Sherlock wakes up. If Sherlock wakes up. John desperately wishes he could shut away his medical knowledge; the voice whispering in his ear that the chances of Sherlock walking away from this exactly the same as before are miniscule.

“Sherlock, I’m only asking one thing of you now. Just one thing, so concentrate,” John clutched Sherlock’s hand, stroking it lightly, “just wake up for one night? If you have to go, if you have to… I want to say goodbye, alright? I want to be able to say goodbye.” John’s voice cracked and his shoulders shook as he sobbed quietly to himself.

~*~*~

John woke up when one of the nurses came in to take Sherlock’s obs and adjusted his morphine. John blinked, adjusting to the light, and realised another shift had started. Another eight hours had passed. John unfolded himself from the visitors’ chair next to Sherlock’s bed and stretched his muscles gingerly. He stole a glance at Sherlock’s chart and scolded himself.

“Sherlock, stop ignoring me. I won’t let you go without saying goodbye, I just won’t.”

John sighed and rubbed his right hand over his face, his left arm in a sling to help is collarbone to heal. He froze when he heard the heart rate monitor quicken ever so slightly.

“Sherlock?”

John rushed to Sherlock’s side, eyes darting back and forth from Sherlock to the machines, looking for any sign he was trying to wake up. He grasped Sherlock’s hand.

“Sherlock, squeeze my hand, I know you can do it.” John stood there for what felt like an eternity clutching Sherlock’s limp hand. Just when he was about to let go, he felt it. Sherlock squeezed.

~*~*~

Doctors and nurses had traipsed in and out of Sherlock’s room for the rest of the evening monitoring him, carrying out tests and then repeating those tests. The Doctors told John that Sherlock had risen from three to nine on the Glasgow Coma Scale. An improvement, but still not out of the woods. He could open his eyes in response to questions, but he could not form any intelligible words. John didn’t know if he could go back in and see Sherlock. It was easier when he was asleep; he had bared his soul to Sherlock. But now Sherlock could look at him with those piercing silver eyes and John did not know if he could bear seeing the hurt and confusion that lay behind them.

After twenty minutes of consideration, John decided he couldn’t run away, not now. He owed it to Sherlock to be with him, even if he never fully regained his speech or awareness of the world. Sherlock had saved John from his sepia existence after being invalided home and had restored the colour. John had fallen in love. You could not simply throw those emotions away.

John cautiously opened the door to Sherlock’s room and stepped inside. Sherlock was no longer on the ventilator, but was still hooked up to the myriad of machines monitoring his vitals. John grasped Sherlock’s hand between his.

“Sherlock? Is this you saying goodbye then? I thought I could be brave, but now I’m not so sure.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened slowly and he tried to focus on John.

“I wanted to tell you something before you went,” John said shakily, forcing back the tears, “and if I never get another chance I’ll be so angry with myself.” Sherlock’s eyes began to sharpen, his focus getting clearer.

John took a deep breath and began to speak when Sherlock started to make a noise and attempted to remove the oxygen mask from his face.

“Sherlock, stop, shh, stop. You can’t remove the oxygen mask, you’ve only just come off the ventilator.” Sherlock looked pleadingly at John and squeezed his hand.

“You’re a stubborn bastard, so I’ll take it off for a minute, but no more.” John gently removed the mask from Sherlock’s face. Sherlock started to speak, it started off as slurs and noises and he growled with impatience. John stroked his hand in encouragement.

“I’m… not… saying….goodbye,” Sherlock eventually formed the words, breathing hard from exertion, “because I’m not… going anywhere… don’t tell… me what you… were going to… not in here.”

John laughed.

“Of course you worked out what I was going to say, I can never keep anything a secret from you.” John felt the tears streaming down his face, but he found that he no longer cared. Sherlock was speaking to him and that was the only thing in the world that mattered.

~*~*~

The next month was a flurry of activity; Sherlock fully regained his speech and started physical therapy in order to relearn how to walk, since he had needed an operation to put pins in his left leg which was shattered in the explosion. Sherlock made full use of his vocal abilities to make his displeasure and boredom known to all who would listen. John simply walked around with a permanent grin on his face. The doctors had explained that the extent of the brain damage was still not fully known; although Sherlock appeared to be recovering quickly he may experience mood swings and personality changes as a result of the trauma.

Finally the day arrived when it was agreed Sherlock could go home. Sherlock had threatened all of the nurses and had moved on to insulting the doctors and so John had quietly suggested to the consultant that it was better for everyone if Sherlock would be allowed to return to Baker Street as long as John kept an eye on him and brought him back three times a week for his physical therapy.

Sherlock absolutely refused to be taken to the waiting taxi in a wheelchair and so struggled on crutches.

“God, John, how did you put up with these infernal things? I never want to use a cane, either.” John helped him into the taxi and then darted back inside to pick up the large bag of medicines and supplies for Sherlock. Not all of the supplies were strictly speaking _necessary_ for Sherlock’s treatment, but he had persuaded John that some things would be perfect to experiment on.

When they arrived at Baker Street, Mrs Hudson was already hovering by the door, anxiously waiting for Sherlock’s arrival.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said tearfully, “I was so worried. So was John, bless him, he hardly came here at all. He must have spent nearly every waking hour by your side.”

Sherlock shifted awkwardly on his crutches and slowly extended his right arm to touch Mrs Hudson on her shoulder. He bowed his head, not trusting himself to be able to form any words. John nodded at Mrs Hudson before helping Sherlock inside and up the stairs.

~*~*~

Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, his leg propped up on cushions and satellites of tea and discarded books lay within arm’s reach. John was sat in his chair, staring openly at Sherlock, fearing that if he left the room Sherlock might be gone when he returned, that his waking up was only a dream.

“I heard you.”

John diverted his gaze to Sherlock’s face.

“I heard you, John. When I was in the coma.” Sherlock propped himself up further so that he could look straight at John.

“Your voice was so clear. You told me to concentrate on what you were saying, that you wanted me to say goodbye if I was going to leave.”

John blinked furiously, hot tears spilling over and down his cheeks. He had not allowed himself to think of those dark days since Sherlock had woken up. Hadn’t dared to think of those six days.

“It was all so surreal, I couldn’t make much out. But you were there, speaking, you sighed a lot. Sometimes I was in a different world, but you were always there with me and your voice always reached me. I knew that I had to fight to get back to you.” Sherlock was trembling, his chest shuddering with emotion. John stumbled up from his chair and over to Sherlock, grasping his hand in an all too familiar way that made his tears fall even faster.

“Can I tell you now? What I was trying to tell you when I thought you were saying goodbye?” John pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s, their tears mixing and falling together in salty tracks.

“I love you, Sherlock. I was saying thank you for saving me, for bringing the colour back to my world. And I love you, I just couldn’t say it before, but when I thought you were going to die I had to tell you.” John could barely form the words, his tears and sadness had constricted his throat and he was gasping for breath. Sherlock simply placed his hand on the back of John’s neck, stroked gently, and whispered, “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Only if for a night by Florence and the Machine
> 
> And I had a dream  
> About my old school  
> And she was there all pink and gold and glittering  
> I threw my arms around her legs  
> Came to weeping, Came to weeping
> 
> Then I heard your voice as clear as day,  
> And you told me I should concentrate,  
> It was all so strange,  
> And so surreal,  
> That a ghost should be so practical.
> 
> Only if for a night  
> And the only solution was to stand and fight,  
> And my body was loosened,  
> I was set alight,  
> But you came over me like some holy light,  
> And although I was burning,  
> You're the only light  
> Only if for a night
> 
> The grass was so green against my new clothes,  
> And I did cartwheels in your honor, dancing on tiptoes  
> My own secret ceremonials before the service began,  
> In the graveyard, doing handstands.
> 
> And I heard your voice as clear as day,  
> And you told me I should concentrate,  
> It was all so strange,  
> And so surreal,  
> That a ghost should be so practical.  
> Only if for a night.  
> And the only solution was to stand and fight,  
> And my body was loosened,  
> I was set alight,  
> But you came over me like some holy light,
> 
> And although I was burning,  
> You're the only light.  
> Only if for a night.
> 
> My darling, my dear, my darling,  
> Tell me what all this sighing's about,  
> Tell me what all this sighing's about.
> 
> And I heard your voice as clear as day,  
> And you told me I should concentrate,  
> It was all so strange,  
> And so surreal,  
> That a ghost should be so practical.


End file.
